Arcana
by Kiera Kingsley
Summary: A fortune teller reveals more about Carver than he ever knew, thought he knew, or might have wanted to know.
1. Chapter 1

It's a Carver fic. Yes, a Carver fic. And it involves fortune tellers and tarot cards. Don't blame me, blame the chlorine sloshing around in my head from two hours in the pool. :-)  
  
Arcana is the plural of arcanum, which is Latin for "profound secret", and refers to the major arcana, or high cards, of the tarot deck. Each of the chapters, except the first and last ones, is based on a card from the major arcana. You'll see what this all means as we go along.  
  
Finally, my apologies to anybody who knows how to do a tarot card reading, because I'm afraid I don't... but I'd like to learn how.  
  
***  
  
Carver likes silent and empty rooms with fresh, clean air. He likes order and calm, coolness and serenity. He does not like bright colours; he does not like swarming crowds; he does not like blaring, booming drum beats that hurts his head.  
  
The festival has engulfed the streets in a riot of noise and colour. The sun scorches the sidewalks as people jostle each other in their tank tops and shorts and sandals. The rich, flavourful scent of fresh meat and vegetables floats through the air as the warm, mellow bronze sound of a saxophone rings out. It's a golden summer evening and everyone has flocked to the streets, chattering and babbling and gossiping.  
  
Carver trudges through the crowd, his forehead etched with deep creases. A frowning little line has settled between his knotted eyebrows. He shifts his briefcase from one hand to the other as he steps aside, to avoid an artist chalking an intricate swirl with dusty fingers on the ground.  
  
The intersection light glows red; Carver curses quietly and rocks impatiently on his heels. He wants to get away from here, from all the commotion and chaos, and go home to his quiet, peaceful apartment.  
  
"Tell your fortune?"  
  
He doesn't think the woman sitting by the edge of the sidewalk is talking to him. She's got a deep blood-red scarf tied around her head and shining glass bracelets all about her slender wrists. He hears them tinkle and clink, and it grates on his nerves.  
  
"You. Brown suit, glasses and briefcase. Tell your fortune?"  
  
Why is she talking to him? "I don't think so."  
  
"It'll take five minutes, no more, I promise." The bracelets jingle as she holds out her hand to him. "I'll even do it for free."  
  
He can't help but be intrigued. "Now why would you want to do it for free?"  
  
"Sit down and I'll tell you." The woman smiles, a impish quirky smile that pokes dimples in her round cheeks. Those long, white, smooth hands are shuffling a deck of cards, snapping and sliding and slipping them into a large stack.  
  
And Carver doesn't know why, but he sits down on the offered chair. The woman flicks her wrist and six cards appear in front of him, all face down. The delicate, spiraling pattern on the backs of the cards fascinates Carver; he traces a finger along the edge of the twists and coiling curves.  
  
"Turn each of them over, one at a time," the woman intones, lightly placing the rest of the cards to one side. "Start with this one--" and she touches the one farthest to the left with the tip of her finger.  
  
***  
  
Confused yet? It doesn't make much sense, I know, but wait for the next chapter--it'll all become clear (I hope!).  
  
Read and review, please! :-) 


	2. Chapter 2: The Hermit

Thanks Jael, Aingeal, and daf9! *does a happy dance* :-) Jael: I have *no* idea how to do a real tarot card reading, so this is prolly very messed up--my apologies... :-(  
  
***  
  
Carver turns the card over.  
  
There's a picture of an wrinkled, weathered old man hunched over inside a dark stone cave. The man's clothes are tattered rags and his bony hand grips a gnarled branch of warped wood. His wiry white beard tangles around his knees and his eyes are sunken and dull.  
  
The old man sighs and twists his fingers around the hilt of his staff. Carver blinks for a second. It's an image on a card. As in, not real.  
  
"The Hermit," the woman purrs in a silky-smooth, cloying voice that coils as sinuously as the smoke of fragrant incense, "represents solitude, searching, guidance, and introspection. He is often said to speak of retreat, of the need to be secluded, of the withdrawal into exile and isolation. He gives us serenity and wisdom..."  
  
Carver's eyes sink sleepily; the click and clink of the woman's bracelets chime melodiously in his ears. He feels so drowsy...  
  
***  
  
Joe wants to hate his family, but he can't.  
  
He wants to hate his father, David Carver, because the balding, stooped man in his faded gray suit shouts furiously at him every time he stumbles in stoned or drunk. But he can't, because there are tears in his father's eyes as he yells.  
  
He wants to hate his mother, Lydia, because she raids his room every day and cleans out his stash of magazines and drugs, and then she screams and he swears and she cries for hours on end. But he can't, because she feeds him and cleans his clothes and really does try to encourage him in every way, but mostly in the way she knows best.  
  
And he wants to hate his older brother Ron. Because Ron does the dishes, helps his mother iron and vaccuum, keeps his room tidy, does all of his homework on time and gets outstanding marks. Because Ron never smokes or skips school or comes home at two in the morning. Because Ron is perfect.  
  
But he can't, because his room is right next to Ron's. And he knows that at night, when the TV goes off and Mom and Dad are asleep, Ron goes into his own bedroom and locks the door carefully behind him, and then cries and cries and cries until his choked sobs dwindle to sniffles and hiccups, then fade away altogether.  
  
Joe wants to hate his family, but he can't.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3: The Chariot

First this chapter went nowhere, then it went in a bunch of different directions, then it got lost and decided to wander aimlessly for a while, then it found a bar, had a few drinks and dozed off, then it stumbled out of bed with a hangover and downed eight mugs of coffee. This is probably why it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. :) Sorry for the delay and thank you for the reviews--I love you all!  
  
***  
  
Carver turns the card over.  
  
The second card from the left is a painting of a burnished gold chariot, splendidly engraved with wreaths of laurels, standing in the dust. The metal is searing hot, shining in the sunlight and flashing into dazzled eyes. The tethered horses are strong, powerful ebony-black stallions with flowing manes. The leather reins dangle loosely over the edge of the empty chariot; there is no driver.  
  
Carver feels those knotted cords of leather in his palm, tightens his fingers around them and feels the reins tremble in his hand. The horses are impatient, scraping and pawing at the ground, tugging at the bit. Beneath the rickety wooden floor, the wheels begin to creak.  
  
Isn't this supposed to be not real?  
  
The soft swish-swish of silk and the tinkle of tiny bells float through his thoughts. "The Chariot represents determination, control, and self- assertion. Victory comes through resolve and fortitude, strength and willpower, but often at the high price of self-denial and rejection..."  
  
***  
  
Maria scratches the little wrinkle at the bridge of her nose as she waits. Her fingers are raw and red from the cold, slightly swollen at the slender tips. She sneezes, then sniffles as she pokes around in her pocket for a Kleenex. She tucks back her hair and shuffles her feet, scuffing them against the raw concrete.  
  
The wind picks up, clicks the beads in her braids together with a light patter of clacking noises. She blows her nose with a loud splutter and snuffles into her Kleenex, wiping at her red eyes with the back of her hand.  
  
She didn't stop crying all night. At first she was sobbing frantically, with choking, shuddering gasps in between as she wheezed and panted; she muffled her crying in her pillow and wept away her tears until she snuffled and gulped into silence. She tried to drown herself in sleep, tried to breathe deeply and close her swollen, aching eyes. Instead she lay quietly awake as the tears drifted from her shut eyes and dropped into the darkness.  
  
Maria didn't know a heart could break this badly.  
  
A calm, even, detached voice ringing hollowly in her ears, speaking clearly and serenely. He never wasted words when he was serious. One phone call, not even ten minutes long, to tell her that it was over.  
  
She and Ron are breaking up. Breaking apart. Disconnected, disjointed, splintered... leaving behind a dream, bright and beautiful like a glittering piece of glass, shattered into shards.  
  
Oh, she knows why. She knows it's important to him to pursue law, to fly off to Boston and study at Harvard, to be the best at what he loves. She knows it's important to him to make his family proud--his family who has no other child to be proud of. She knows that she can't hold on to him like this, keeping him here with her forever, clinging feverishly to him like a sickly weed curled around a strong sapling.  
  
She knows. It still hurts.  
  
The bus has arrived, creaking to a standstill as the doors swing open and a rush of warm air brushes her face. Maria's cheeks and nose are numb, her lips are cracked and dry. She swallows and lets out a small sigh, rubbing her hands together, then rubs her eyes as she climbs the steps. The doors slide shut behind her and the bus lurches off again.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4: The Moon, Reversed

Sunset: The story actually does have a plot... really, I'm not kidding ;-) It's just that it has a bad habit of wandering off and getting lost, then slowly meandering back. My apologies, and I'll try to make it clearer as I go along.  
  
***  
  
Carver turns the card over.  
  
The image is upside down, throwing him off balance for a second or two; he feels as if the world has suddenly tilted underneath him and sent him flying head over heels. The night sky on the card is murky, misted over by clouds--clouds like watered silk shining underneath the stars, veils of shimmering vapours, a myriad of water and silver light so translucent and delicate that it might dissolve into darkness in the next breath of wind. Through the wisps of cloud the bright white face of the moon glimmers palely, a glistening mirror of rippling light.  
  
He sees a strand of dull gray smoke glide by, feels the cool air brush across his cheek like light fingertips... not real, not real, not...  
  
The fortune teller taps her fingers together, making faint, flickering shadows dance on the tablecloth. "The two cards before have signified events and circumstances in your past; now these two shall reveal your present state of being," she says, in her lilting, sing-song accent that he can't quite place. "What have you drawn? Ah-h... the Moon, reversed."  
  
"The Moon symbolizes illusions and dreams, and also fear and bewilderment-- the sense of feeling lost, confused, disoriented, abandoned and alone... in reversal, the energy level is lower, as if these emotions are being blocked, ignored, or denied..."  
  
***  
  
Carver keeps his office well lit at night. He flicks on all the lamps, draws the blinds on the windows, and even switches objects around. He shuts out the shadows in every corner and behind every door, desk, and shelf.  
  
After shuffling his papers together and gathering up his coat and briefcase, he waits until he's in the doorway before flicking off the lights and quickly slamming the door shut behind him. He hurries away a few steps, breathes deeply, and continues to the elevator at a calm, even pace.  
  
When he sits on the couch at home, flipping through the channels on TV or reading a paperback, he keeps the lights on in other rooms and every door open at all times. They stay on all night, and Carver falls asleep in his wide bed to the soft, warm glow of a small lamp on a shelf above him. It's only during the morning, when bright sunlight spills through the windows, that the lights are switched off.  
  
Carver is afraid of the dark.  
  
He's never going to tell anyone, never. A man in his late thirties acting like a little kid--he'd never hear the end of it. He refuses to let it slip, let it show, let anybody know. He'll never tell a soul. Ever.  
  
But in the still, silent hours of the night, he has horrible dreams that leave him first tense and edgy, startled badly by any sudden noise, then dull-eyed and drowsy in the morning.  
  
Every night he falls asleep, and finds himself running through an empty house. The lights are all off and the hallways are full of skulking, stalking shadows. Something is chasing him, something that makes heavy clunking footsteps and hard, harsh growling noises. He wakes up with a strangled yelp, tearing at the sheets and trembling all over; he buries himself deeper in the pillows and dives into sleep again.  
  
Every night he falls asleep, and finds himself driving his car down a deserted highway late at night. All he can see is the pale glare of the headlights glowing ahead, luminous beams of light that pool in bright puddles on the ground. The darkness surrounds him, a swirling, swishing, whispering, breathing thing, alive with the rustling wind and crackling, creaking noises. It clings to the windows, it creeps along the doors, it huddles around his feet and lurks behind him. He wakes up in a panic, terror throttling his throat and clawing at his heart.  
  
Every night he trundles into the bathroom, drains a glass of water, and then stumbles to the couch, where he collapses onto the cushions and falls into a fitful slumber until the break of day.  
  
***  
  
Feedback for an author is like coffee to a college student studying overnight for exams, and... *spots the story wandering off again* Hey, get back here! *chases after it* 


	5. Chapter 5: The Hanged Man

Carver turns the card over.   
  
The image, dyed in stark, bleak black and blue tones, is of a man beneath a tree. The tree is a thick yew, with sprays and bursts of glossy dark leaves along its clustered branches. It forms a dark silhouette against the sky, a looming presence above the thin, frail figure of the man. He is dressed in a simple shirt and loose pants, with bare feet, and his long, pale neck is broken by a length of slender hemp cord fastened to a branch above. His white face is eerily blank and empty.   
  
Carver feels a chill crawl down his spine shivering, creeping and shuddering along until it burrows into his stomach. He taps his fingers nervously against the edge of the table.   
  
"The Hanged Man," the fortune teller informs him quietly, "is the symbol of sacrifice, of losing and letting go. It indicates a suspension, a pause, a period of time for reversal and reflection..."   
  
***   
  
"Show him in, please--Ron, how are you? No, no, sit down, it's all right. Here, just dump your coat and briefcase over here... excellent. Take a seat. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.   
  
"Yes, I'm afraid it is an urgent matter. It's about the Bennett case. I need to have a word with you about how it's being handled.   
  
"I know you're doing your best, Ron, you always do. It's not about that. It's just that we feel that the case requires a... different set of skills than your own. We're giving the case over to Gary.   
  
"Yes, the new lawyer. I'm glad you've noticed. He's a smart man, very quick and sharp-tongued. He can close this case in no time.   
  
"Ron, it's not about you. We need this over with as quickly and quietly as possible. You always argue and debate and make things messy, but Gary--Gary can finish it off, no problem...   
  
"Yes, I know it's important to you. I'm sure you've invested a lot of time and effort into it. You're a good lawyer, Ron, everybody agrees on that, you're just not the type of lawyer we need right now. Just... think of this as a vacation. You get time off, we'll pay you your usual salary...   
  
"Look, I'm sorry, Ron, I really am. We'll call you as soon as we get a new case, I promise. Now, I'm sorry, but I have an appointment. I'll get in touch with you soon."   
  
***   
  



End file.
